A little bit human
by jitterfly
Summary: The Whitechapel team have been called out ... but so has someone else.    I wrote this in one sitting one day, so I've broken it down into 4 chapters to try and reduce boredom. Hope it's ok :
1. Chapter 1

A little bit human

Chandler sat down at his desk. After briefly looking up to check no one was watching, he began to empty his pockets. Phone, pen, badge, watch, tiger balm. Each item spaced an inch apart, and always in that order. He literally couldn't do his work if it wasn't. It was quite ridiculous, really. Years of training, months of leg work, and weeks of planning, all became useless if his phone wasn't parallel to his pen.

It was like a part of his brain just wouldn't let him get on if things weren't just right. In fact, it was exactly that. He'd hoped the rest of the team hadn't noticed. Miles probably had a fairly good idea, just from barging into his office unannounced when Chandler was counting or tidying but, hopefully, the rest were blind to his eccentricities. For now, anyway.

Chandler was reading through an old case file from the 'Ripper', trying to find anything he could have done better, when the phone rang.

"Chandler. Got a murder for you."

It was Anderson. Straight to the point, as usual.

"Great, where?"

The station had been dead for over a week now. After the Ripper, everything was so much more…. Mundane.

"It's underground. The building site at Fenchurch street wasn't cornered off properly and someone used the entrance to the plumbing as a dumping ground."

"The entrance to the plumbing?" Chandler paused for a second, before working it out. "You mean the sewers?"

Chandler almost shouted and his heart sank when the reply was not one he'd been hoping for.

"Of course I mean the sewers. It wasn't exactly gonna be dumped where the builders are working, was it. Forensics are already there, so you'd better hurry up."

Chandler reached for his tiger balm. "Right, ok. We're on it."

He hung up the phone and unscrewed the cap as fast as he could. Chandler closed his eyes and rubbed the sides of his forehead. The minty fresh menthol was working it's way into his temples as he rubbed, but the stress - induced headache that was coming wasn't going to be held off for long.

_The sewers!_

Chandler looked around his office. Where was it? It must be here somewhere. No one was allowed in his office and he certainly hadn't taken it out.

As his eyes scanned the room, they came to rest on top of his filing cabinet. Now he remembered. It was behind the stack of books.

Joe hurried over to it and took the books down, placing them carefully on his chair, and grabbed the bottle of blended whiskey he'd been saving for emergencies. Emergencies like this.

He really wasn't an advocate for drinking at work and he'd much prefer not to. Being a detective inspector and having your inhibitions lowered, your control taken away and your judgment impaired wasn't a good mix, but unfortunately, that was exactly _why_ he had to drink.

He could do a better job if he was tipsy. He'd be under the influence of something either way, and alcohol was much easier to explain and deal with.

Chandler took three big swigs from the bottle and emptied the rest into a canteen. After everything was back in the DI's pockets, including the newly acquired alcohol, He left his office to tell the team the 'good' news.

"There's been a murder at Fenchurch street. The body's been dumped in the sewers near a building site. Doctor Llewellyn is already at the scene and we won't know much else until she's had time to examine the body."

For a second, the room was silent. All eyes were on Chandler and it was as if, for a moment, everything was moving in slow motion. He still got nervous when that happened. Everyone in a room looking at him, only him. The way he could demand the attention of everyone like that was both a blessing and a curse.

Suddenly, the room was buzzing again as Miles, McCormack, Mansell and Kent all reached simultaneously for their coats, turned their computers off and left for their cars.

Kent was the last out, and as Joe watched him leave, he saw Kent look back and give him a smile before running after the faster DC's.

Kent's smile made Joe feel warm. It was so inviting. He didn't get to see it much, as the youngest DC was usually buried in paperwork, trying to gain the respect and friendship of his seniors by working twice as hard. But when he did smile, it lit up the room.

"You coming boss?" Miles was yelling from the staircase, wondering where his lift had gotten to, he guessed.

Chandler took advantage of the empty room to take another swig of the whiskey concealed in his pocket. The warmth spread down his throat and he could already feel the buzz beginning to take effect. He only hoped it would properly kick in before they got to the rat infested, disease ridden, dark, damp sewers.


	2. Chapter 2

Chandler beeped his car open and reached for the handle. He staggered back a little after pulling it, and Miles saw the DI looking a little unsteady.

"You want me to drive, sir?"

Chandler got into the drivers seat and fastened his seatbelt. "Absolutely not. I've never been driven by anyone before and I'm not gonna start now."

Miles looked a little uncertain, but buckled up anyway. He trusted Chandler's judgment, even if he didn't fully trust his detective skills yet.

He looked over at his driver. Joe was sitting there with his hand on the ignition and his eyes closed.

"You alright, sir?"

Joe snapped his eyes open and turned to face his DS. "Absolutely fine. Shall we go?"

The car pulled off and they were half way down the road before Miles took his eyes off Chandler.

"You lookin' forward to the sewers then?", he joked.

Chandler said nothing, just stared ahead as if no one had spoken. He was trying his hardest not to think about it right now. He could neither use his Tiger Balm, nor have a sip of whiskey to calm himself right now, so he'd rather they didn't start talking about the most stressful thing he'd have to deal with that day, investigation included.

The rest of the journey was a little awkward. Miles had slumped in his seat, relaxing before the investigation started and Chandler hadn't moved form his bolt upright position in the drivers seat. He was tense, that much was obvious to most people, but Miles assumed he was just being a vigilant driver.

They were the last to arrive, so the other DC's were all chatting when Chandler and Miles pulled up.

Miles was first out of the car, and after swiftly joining the boys, his eyes turned, again, back to the DI. Joe was still plugged in, looking down at something in his lap. It was only when his hand came up and met his temples that Ray knew it was his Tiger Balm. The boss was very fond of that stuff, especially during investigations.

After a couple of minutes of talking, the team looked up and saw Chandler leading the way to the murder site. They all stopped at once and started to follow, like loyal little puppies. They all looked very professional, when they weren't laughing at each other's flatulence.

The ladder to the sewers glared at Joe like a snake glares at a mouse. And that's all Chandler felt like at that moment. A mouse.

The other detectives came to a halt behind their DI and Mansell patted Joe on the shoulder.

"It's not a ladder to the underworld, sir!" The others chuckled and, one by one, went past him and down the hole.

"It might as well be", Chandler muttered to no one in particular.

The sewers were just how Chandler had pictures them. They might as well have been taken out of a movie, they were so stereotypical.

It was dark, but not so dark you couldn't see. There were drops of god only knows what coming from the ceiling and echoing in the long tunnel. There was a side path, but not a big one and the centre was filled with a stream of, well, sewage. The only thing _not_ stereotypical about the scene was the dead body, lying face down in the middle.

As soon as Chandler set his eyes on it, he gagged. How he felt sick for the man 'swallowing sewage' when he was dead, was beyond him. All he knew was he wanted out.

Dr. Llewellyn was crouched by the body, right in the middle of the stream and there were photographers standing around her, capturing the scene for evidence.

She looked up and saw Chandlers face. He wasn't bothering to hide his disgust. "All part of the job, eh!"

Chandler opened his mouth to speak, when he was interrupted. By someone behind him. The voice was loud and echoed throughout the sewer.

"What do we have here then?"

Everybody turned.

Standing on the side path were two men. One taller than the other by about four inches.

The shorter of the two was blond, medium build and by the looks of it, struggling to catch up with his friend.

The taller one, the one who had spoken, was of slim stature, with curly black hair and an arrogance that radiated off him, even in a surrounding such as theirs.

"I'm sorry, you are?" Chandler stared at the two men, perplexed as to why they were allowed onto the grounds in the first place, let a lone to the actual murder scene.

"Sherlock Holmes, not that it's relevant. Now, do you mind?"


	3. Chapter 3

The taller man strode past Chandler and his team as if he had more of a right to be there than the body itself, and without speaking again, pulled on a pair of latex gloves and started to examine the cadaver.

Everyone was silent while they tried to take in what had just happened. An apparent civilian had just strode into a murder investigation and got to work. Even doctor Llewellyn had stopped, and now just crouched there, watching the latest edition to their team do his work in silence.

"Hang on." Chandler eventually found his voice in the madness of the situation. "I think it's incredibly relevant who you are, actually. What do you think you're doing with our body?"

It sounded odd and Chandler immediately regretted phrasing his question like that, but he carried on.

"This is a murder scene. You can't just waltz in and tamper with the evidence."

Sherlock stood up and stared at Chandler. His eyes were cold. Mechanical, almost. Chandler found it uncomfortable looking at him. It was like the man was assessing him. Deducing anything he could from him.

After a moment of silence, the man nodded slightly, almost as if he'd decided Joe wasn't a threat to him, and started to talk.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. I was sent by DI Lestrade to do a better job of solving the case than your entire team could do and, so far, I'm succeeding, partly because of my excellent skills of deduction and superior intellect, and partly because your team_, DI_, seem to be standing around like idiots watching a stranger do your job."

Chandler stood, speechless. All eyes were on him again, only this time, he wasn't giving orders. He felt his throat begin to close up and beads of sweat started to appear on his forehead. Suddenly he became _very_ aware of his filthy surroundings and wanted nothing more than to reach for his tiger balm and whiskey and then get the hell out of there.

His pocketed hands fingered the glass pot and itched to take it out. He couldn't though, he couldn't show any sign of weakness, especially not in front of his team.

Sherlock's eyes hadn't moved. He continued to stare at the detective square in the eyes, but he still saw much more than anyone else.

The man had tensed up, incredibly so. The others were a bit on guard, although the … DS, he was guessing from his appearance, was still cool as a cucumber. So, a detective that tenses up under mediocre stress? Obviously wasn't as trained in these sorts of situations, probably avoided them, so a fast tracker then. One with more standing than the average plastic. Had a friend or family member in high places. Hands hadn't left his pockets since he's set eyes on him, not just uncomfortable or confrontational now then, uncomfortable from the beginning, and more so than the others. Beads of sweat appearing on the man's forehead, not just from the stressful confrontation, he'd been perspirating for longer, the vaguely visible pit stains under the arms told him that. It would take longer than a couple of minutes for sweat to seep through a shirt and jacket like that. This man was out of his comfort zone down here. He was also standing apart from the other detectives. Why? Everyone else was having a chat, why be the only one excluded? The postures of the DC's indicated anxiety for their boss, so he's on good terms with them. Too stressed to chat, then. Query claustrophobic? Right hand fiddling with something in his pocket. Not a large object. Easily enclosed in a man's hand. A tub of something? Not just any old object left in a jacket though. This was a security item. He wants to use whatever it is. Something for stress? Maybe a balm of some sort, probably never leaves home without it. And a canteen in the left jacket pocket. No guessing needed, clearly visible. _Very _uncomfortable. Swallowing too much. Dry mouth, closed throat. Classic signs of anxiety. Make sure to note if he drinks straightaway. Thirst will subside after stress is relieved. Anxiety won't. Drink as a crutch?

Clothes are … "Why are you here?"

Sherlock's train of thought was interrupted. The DI's voice was coarse. "Why did Lestrade send you? We have plenty of detectives here."

"Because I was bored he didn't want us hanging around him, I imagine."

The mention of 'us' turned everyone's thoughts to the same thing, and, as if syncronised by remote, they all turned to the man in the shadows. They'd forgotten about him after Sherlock's rather bold entrance, but now all thoughts turned to the blond man with him.

"And who are you?" Chandler asked, taking back role as leader.

"John Watson. I'm a doctor. I just sort of, tag along really."

The tone of his voice was soft and put everyone back into a more confortable state of being. They weren't threatened by him, nor angry with him. He'd simply been dragged along, like they had.

The atmosphere dissipated as Dr Llewellyn spoke.

"Do you want to take a look? Could always do with another opinion."

John looked at Sherlock, as if for permission, and slowly stepped forward, to the body.

The group started talking again and, as John and Caroline went over the details of the body, Chandler walked away from Sherlock. He didn't care about saving face or staring him out right now, he just wanted to get as far away from the body and the sewage as was physically possible.

As he stepped further into the sidepath, Joe took out his canteen and took two swigs from it. It wasn't really kicking in as he'd hoped, so after returning it to it's place in his pocket, he started to rub the much needed tiger balm into his temples. He didn't care who was watching, he just needed some sort of relief.

He looked down at the murky water and gagged again. He started to rub his hands, uncomfortable at them being held at his side, who knows what they might brush against.

Sherlock observed chandler with great delight. Usually he had to work at an accurate deduction, but reading Chandler was like reading a book.

As suspected, the drink came out as soon as the confrontation was over, and unexpectedly, so did the pot from his pocket.

His guess was confirmed when the DI started rubbing the contents onto his temples. Not only balm, this had menthol to sooth. Most people would have only taken a swig of the … whiskey, judging by the smell, but Chandler had done both. Not just to lessen the anxiety of this situation. This went deeper than that. Claustrophobia was looking good. Only, he didn't seem to be that uncomfortable with the confinement of the tunnel. Claustrophobics usually look around them. At the ceiling and the walls, often for a way out, but the DI was focusing on the floor.

As he moved under the florescent tube light, Sherlock got a better look at him.

"Of course." He'd said it a little too loudly and three of the men turned to look at him. John didn't notice. He'd become used to his musings.

He could now see the boss in full. Shoes were still shiny, even after stepping in the sewer, but not only shiny. They were a tad scuffed aswell, indicating regular polishing. He wasn't only making them shine, he was also wearing off the coating.

Clothes were definitely tailor made. Nothing was baggy, the trousers were precisely the right length, as were the sleeves and the jacket didn't hang off of him, like the other's did. Obviously had money to spare, being a DI, but maybe that wasn't the only reason. _Everything_ was tailor made. Most people only get their jacket done, to keep up appearances, but this man _only_ wore 'his own' clothes. Doesn't like shop bought.

Clean shaven. No sign of cream behind the ear. Washed thoroughly then. Still rubbing his hands together. Not because of temperature, if anything it was on the warmer side, so more likely to keep his hands away from his sides. Doesn't want to touch anything by accident. A little worn too. Clearly doesn't do any manual labour, so washed frequently.

Conclusion: OCD

Sherlock's observations took him under a minute and in that time, one thing had happened. Sherlock had seen it a mile away but the doctor seemed to know what she was doing, so he'd let her find it herself. There were abrasions to the man's skull. He hadn't fallen. They were in the wrong place. He'd clearly been hit over the head. This was a drag and dump.

The DS leaned in closer and saw them too. "huh!"

Not much to say! Didn't really care to be here. Definitely had kids. Probably missing some sort of event.

"DI Chandler." Dr Llewellyn's voice cut through everyone elses. "Don't you want to have a look?"

Chandler turned and faced the body. To get to it, he'd have to step into the sewage. There were plastic shoe covers, but he knew that wouldn't be enough. He'd also have to move further from the light. Anything could touch him or crawl near him without him seeing.

As Joe was thinking all this, Sherlock was following his train of thought, as if it were on a screen above him. He really did like observing people and the one's with problems were always so much more interesting. He almost had to think to come to his conclusions. _Almost_.

But watching the DI, something felt different, and he no longer felt entirely comfortable relishing in his anguish. He imagined, this was what most people felt. How dull.

As Chandler reluctantly stepped a little closer, Sherlock called out.

"Actually, I need him to show me something. I'll have to get a good look at the street if I'm to make an accurate deduction. CCTV, windows, that sort of thing."

John looked up at this. Never had he heard Sherlock ask to be _shown_ anything. He usually just left to look around on his own. Must be something about the DI. Probably wanted to talk alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Chandler breathed a sigh of relief and followed his saviour out of the sewer and onto the reasonably clean street. He lent on his knees and closed his eyes for a moment, before remembering he had company.

He snapped up, annoyed at himself for showing any sign of weakness in front of the mechanical man, and asked what he wanted to take a look at.

"Oh, nothing. I did all that when we arrived. I just thought you might like to get out of walking around in sewage."

Chandler looked Sherlock in the eyes for the second time that night. They were still cold, but they had a hint of something else in them now. Empathy?

"Yes, well. It isn't nice down there."

Sherlock could sense the DI trying to avoid the conversation they both knew was about to happen.

"They don't know, do they?" he asked.

Chandler faked a confused look, although he knew it was pointless. Fine then. If he wanted to play dumb, he'd have to spell it out for him.

"The bad case of OCD you have? They don't know, do they?"

Chandler was surprised to hear it out loud. No one had ever spoken to him about it before, no one knew. In a way, it was almost a relief to have an opening to talk freely.

"No. And they don't need to either. I'm perfectly capable of doing my job. "

"Yeah, you look it." Sherlock mocked. "You know as well as I do, anyone else in there wouldn't have even hesitated to do their job and inspect a dead body. But it's holding you back."

"Yeah, well. I manage." Chandler was unnerved now. He didn't like people telling him what he was feeling."

"That's why you have the whiskey is it? I know you don't drink at work usually, the way you hold yourself shows me that, so it's clearly to supress your thoughts, your compulsions. Don't tell me I'm wrong, either. I'm never wrong." The edges of his mouth curled ever so slightly, almost forming a smile.

"Look, as much as I like it, I'm not here to tell you what to do", Chandler scoffed at that.

"...But," Sherlock carried on anyway, " It might be a good idea to tell your team.

Joe started to shake his head, horrified at the idea, but Sherlock interrupted. "Miles already sort of knows anyways, doesn't he? He was watching you the whole time you were in there. He wasn't shocked by your, quite frankly, odd behaviour and that's something!"

"Maybe." Chandler was lost in thought. If he told them, at least he might get out of cases like these.

"No, that's not why you should tell them." Joe looked at him, surprised. It was like he'd just read his mind, although, judging by their conversation, this wasn't out of the ordinary.

"Ok, don't tell them. Just don't hide it. I worked it out in about a minute, so it shouldn't take them much longer than… a year to realise."

Chandler smiled, so did Sherlock, nearly.

"Anyway, there are people to patronise. See you around Detective Inspector Joseph Chandler."

And with that, Sherlock turned and made his way to the main road.

"What about John?" Chandler called after him.

"I'll text him."

Joe turned and started making his way back to the car. If he wasn't going to hide his problem any more, there was no point making himself go in there again.

He pressed the button to unlock it, and pulled the handle, just as he was called.

"Oh, and DI Chandler." Sherlock hadn't even bothered to stop, he was still walking away and Joe had to strain to hear him.

"The killer's blood is on the railing."


End file.
